social commentary – Anton Martin Smith Writer

“Born Into Insanity” (A Poem)

February 7, 2025February 8, 2025Posted in Poems, social commentary, Sociology, UncategorizedTagged deception, fiction, Poems, social commentary, society, SuicideLeave a comment

by Martin Anton Smith

Death by one’s own hand is a terrible thing,

And everyone says so,

And everyone agrees.

But the real question is this:

Given the The World is as it is,

We should be asking,

“why don’t more people do it?”.

After all, when you really look at it,

‘The World’ is designed to create misery.

We’re living in a contrived artificial reality,

That was artificial long before computers were around.

For all the most important stuff – energy, food, housing,

We have Cartels owned & run by Psyco’s who create artificial shortages,

To jack up the price,

This all keeps The Hamsters redlining themselves on the wheel.

If they stop running the wheel will kill them in a second.

The wheel will throw them under the nearest bridge,

And it does all the time.

We can be sure of one thing:

The World is by design a bad place for most.

So much so that even those ‘doing well’ are miserable.

The Truth is we should all still be living as hunter gathers,

Or at worst in small self-sufficient villages.

This was the real design of the Earth,

And is what every other creature abides by.

It’s just the humans that let themselves be hoodwinked,

All those millennia ago.

We were just born into it, & so never thought it was truly fucked up.

We were all born into insanity,

And we will die in it.

And most will never realise.

Always question things –

For unquestioned ‘normality’ is anything but.

But for now.

We are still the butt of own own jokes.

For those of us ‘in the know’,

Let us not be all like

“Oh dear, how sad, never mind”.

Addendum:

Sadly I still predict the Chattering Classes will continue to only Chatter.

“Macroncke, The Diner, & The French Fourth Reich.” (A Short Story)

July 1, 2023September 2, 2023Posted in fiction, social commentaryTagged fiction, Fourth Reich, France, Humour, Poems, Riots, short stories, short story, social commentary, Third Reich, warLeave a comment

By Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

Macroncke Sat At The Table At The Very Posh Restaurant. This Was the Little French Diner That Could. It Was A Favourite Of High Society In France. It Had Old Oak Panelling & Ocean Liner Motif, With Ambient Low Lighting.

There Was No Press Or Outsiders, So He Could Speak Freely Without Fear Of Being Recorded. As Could All His Inner Sanctum At Seated The Table. They Were Known As His Most Trusted Followers, But He Didn’t Trust Them That Much – After All, His Profession Was Politics.

He Had Narrowly Survived An Assassination Attempt From An Inner Circle Member Just Last Year, So, He Was Suitably Cautious About Everyone. This Wise Cautiousness Even Extended To Even His Wife – Prunella.

They All Sat & Watched The Riots On The Restaurant TV, That Was Perched Up High & Almost Out Of Sight, With The Sound Off, But The Captions On.

Late Yesterday It Had Begun. They Saw The Rioting, The Cars Burning, The Looting, The Explosions, The Angry Zombified Faces Of The Masses,

The Rocks & Fireworks Aimed Squarely At The Cops – Who Were No Longer Rugged Or Tough. the French Police System – Like All Institutions – Having Long Been Victims Of A Widespread Philosophe Of Declining Entry Standards.

They Saw All The Wall To Wall TV Coverage In Kingly Comfort. The Table Had Himself – The PM. It Had His Old School Teacher aka His 65-Year-Old Wife Prunella. The Remaining Few Were A Faceless But Nicely Committed & Brainwashed Bunch.

It Had The Minister of Defence. It Had The Minister For Health. It Had The Finance Minister. It Had the Minister For Technology. Finally, It Had The Minister Of Immigration.

But Given The Seemingly Dire Circumstances – Were They In A Bad Mood? Certainly Not. Anyone Who Didn’t Know ‘Dirty Politics’ Might Expect This, Given The Riots Plastered Through The Media. But No – They Were All Quite Jubilant. Ebullient. An Esprit de Corps, Was Clearly Evident.

For This Was A Great Opportunity – For Them & Their Movement. But A Disaster For The People of France. These Kinds Of Riots Were Mostly A Farce. Their Bark Was Far Worse than Their Bite. After All – They Only Burnt Down A Few Dozen Buildings – A Meare ‘Drop In the Ocean’, Compared to All France’s Key Infrastructure.

As Was A Similar Vein With The Looting. As With The Burnt Out Cars.

The ‘Police – Rioter Skirmishes’ As The Press Dubbed These Mostly Semi-Violent Affairs, Only Ever Resulted In Zero to Five Deaths. This Was No Twentieth Century Style Coup & They Knew It. But This Was Not Because The French Citizens Were Not Enraged By Revolutionary Feeling – They Were.

It Was Only Because They Had All Been Spiritually & Physically Weakened By The Plan Over So Many Decades. They Were Energetically Speaking Like A High Performance Car With An Empty Tank Of Fuel, Simply Running On Residual Vapours.

Now That His Inner Sanctum Had All Arrived & Exchanged Pleasantries, He Would Kick Off The Meeting. Macroncke Put His Phone Down On The Table & Stood Up, While Holding His Wine Glass Somewhat Crookedly, it Was Almost Empty, So Remained Un-spilled.

“Ah These Overgrown Teenage Fools Have Allowed Me To Crack Down – Even More Than Before –

I Will Happily Tar All The Masses With Their Own Brainless Fiery Brushes”

There Was Hooping, Hollering, Table Slapping & Half-Drunk Applause From All Cronies At The Little White Tableclothed Tables, Which Were Lined Together As To Effectively Form One Long Thin Table.

Macroncke Continued:

“Ladies & Gentlemen, What Are Your Ideas On Further Exploiting This Moment?”

The Finance Minister Said:

“I’ll Have A Word to The Central Bank Chairman – Remember He Is In Our Pockets – He Will Jack Up Interest Rates An Extra 5%, That’ll Put An Extra 1 Million Of ‘Em On the Streets”

There Was Rapturous Applause & Slugs Of Wine Thrown Back Into Their Wrinkly Lizard-Like Necks.

The Immigration Minister Said:

“I’ll Report That We Are Allowing Another 1,000,000 Abjectly Lost Souls Into France To Plug Employment Shortages”.

More Rapturous Applause Followed, Accompanied By Deathly Like Shrieks Of Vengeance.

Someone Knocked A Glass Over On the Floor – It Broke Loudly, But No One Picked It Up.

The Defence Minister Said:

“I’ll Instruct The Army & Navy That They Can Continue To Practise Their War Drills On the Streets & Allow Rubber Bullets To Fly”.

This Statement Proved As A ‘Damp Squib’, As Much More Meanness Was Expected By The Living Gouls At The Table. He Fixed This Dour Response By Saying:

“I’ll Instruct Them To “Accidentally” Run Over Ten Percent Of Them With Our Police Humvees”.

This Time Jubilation Was Duly Restored – The Cackles & Slaps Flowed Just As The Top-Tier Champagne Had Been. Macroncke’s Wife Prunella Was So Deliriously Happy She Laughed Like An Australian Outback Hyena.

It Was The Minister Of Health’s Turn.

“I’ll Get The Crooked Docs To Whip Up A New Compulsory Jab – To Reduce Their IQ by 10 Points!”

This They Loved Greatly & Hands Slapped The Table Applause & Woops Rang Out For Many Seconds.

The Technology Minister Rose & Adjusted His Glasses Like A Dull Deputy Principal Would Addressing Schoolchildren At Assembly.

“I’ll Put A Trojan House On All the Social Media Apps – It’ll Track Everyone Unawares

To Within A Centimeter”

This Made The Table So Happy they Got Up & Twirled About, Stamping Feet, Waving Arms & Slugging Back Wine Glasses.

Macroncke’s Wife Prunella Got Up & Said:

“Well, I Have No Portfolio & Am Not A Minister – But I Can Punish The Leader, Like I Used To Punish My Husband When He Was My 7-Year-Old Primary School Student”

Macroncke, Although A Fool Was Also An Experienced Statesman, So Only Half Blushed At This Wife Induced Very Awkward Moment – He Stayed Still & Quiet Amongst The Many Audience Murmurs. Prunella The Very Drunk PM’s Wife, Continued Her Monologue.

“I’ll Take The Ringleader Of the Rioters To the Front Of The Mob…. & Then While Facing His Followers –

I Will Pull His Pants Down Smack Him On His Botty, Yelling At Him ‘Who’s A Naughty Boy Then’ “.

The Crowd Around The Table Were At First Stunned Into Silence, Being Not Sure How Macroncke Would Take This Bold But Emasculating Move From His Much Older Wife.

All Eyes Were Eagerly Fixed On Macroncke.

He Stayed Stoney Faced At First -But Then Broke Into A Strained Maladroit Smile, As Typified By Top Politicians.

This Allowed Them All To Go Wild Beyond Belief. The Finance Minister Laughed So Hard He Had To Walk To the Bathroom, Clutching His Bottom While Walking In Hybridised Sloth/Tin Soldier Fashion.

Macroncke’s Wife Abruptly Did A Handstand Against The Bar. What A Pity For Onlookers, That She Also Had A Penchant For Wearing No Underwear.

The Faux Pas Of Her Below the Waste Nudity Was Politely Ignored By All, As If She Had Been Wearing Jeans & Not A Long Floral Skirt.

The Technology Minister Got Up & With A Crazed Expression Snapped His iPhone In Half.

The Defence Minister, Screwing Up A Mock Fight Actually Punched the Immigration Ministers ‘Lights’ Out. The Now Floored Immigration Minister, Gurgled Indecipherable Words While Unconscious On The Opulent Imported Turkish Rug.

The Aging & Very Overweight Minister Of Health Having Seen The Chaos Laughed So Hard His Hernia Re-Burst itself, He Hit the Floor Rolling Around & Clutching His Stomach. He Only Stopped Rolling In ‘Slow Moving Billiard Ball Style’, As He Landed Right Next To The Still Gurgling & Still Unconscious Immigration Minister.

It Took Some Weighty Slices Of An Hour For Everyone To Regain Their Equilibrium & For the Disarray To Clear. Some Stayed Disabled On the Floor, But Were None-The-Less Awake & Attentive Enough To Their Surroundings.

It Became Patently Obvious That This Was The Now The End Of The Night. There Was No Need For Anyone To Prolong the Event. At This Moment The Security Detail Emerged From Behind The Wallpaper & Begun To Escort Them Homewards.

Soon All These Mouldy Old Soul Sellouts Would Be Back In Their Spacious Tax-Exempt Palaces. All To Their Different But Equally Palatial, ‘Quadrupilly Gated Community’ Dwellings.

Macronck Took The Last Moment To Say A Closing Remark. He Was Little in Stature But So Good At Appearing Like An Alpha Male – He Had A Booming Deep Voice & Took Up A Lot Of Space. He Had His Legs Wide Apart & Crossed Arms When He Confidently Roared:

“While My Wife May Have Embarrassed Me Tonight – I Am Not Embarrassed By Your Commitment To The Cause – French Neo-National Socialism.

Now I’ll See You On Monday In Cabinet, To Put Final Plans In Motion”. We Will No Longer Be Beholden to The Riff-Raff of Society – For They Will Simply Cease To Exist. France Can Finally Return To Its Former Napoleonic Era Greatness.”

He Ended With His Per-usual Boastful, Emotive, & Flamboyant Version of What Can Only Be Described As A Partially Veiled “Heil Macroncke” Salute – Which Was Ceremoniously Returned In Kind By The Doting & Wobbling Henchmen & Henchwomen.

Exactly As they Always Did In These Clandestine Soirees & Closed-Door Meetings, As There Was No Need to Hide Themselves, Or their Intentions.

They & Their Security Detail All Went Out The Back Of the Little French Diner To Their Waiting Cars In Single File Fashion. Contentment Was Written All Over Their Hardened & Cold – But Very Focussed Countenances.

For They Knew The French Fourth Reich Was Re-Flowering, With Perfect Timing, Exactly As Planned.

This Would Also, Of Course – Lead to A Great War – The Last Few Decades of the Strategically Undeclared World War 4 Would Melt Away Into A Very Hot Declared World War 4.

The Little French Restaurant Was Now Closing Down, A Few Waiters & Waitresses Milled Around The Table, Tending To The Strewn Cacophony Of Knives, Forks, Spilled Wine & Various Body Fluids Of The Political Melee.

They Were Now All At Their Respective Homes – Soon to be In Bed. Their Respective Drunkenness Ensuring Any Wired-ness that Might Keep Them Also Sleepless, Was Defeated.

The Henchmen & Henchwomen Of The French Fourth Reich, Were All – Bar Macroncke Himself – Sleeping Soundly To The Distantly Soothing Pops & Whistles Of The Wild Street Violence. They Were More than Confidant Their Collective-Machiavellian-Artistic-Dream-Creations, Their Fascist-Twisted-Elitist-Hopes & Dreams, Were Coming To Fruition.

They All Knew Victory Would Begin In Only A Few Hours Away At Sun Up. They Would Reap What They Had Sown.

Macroncke However, Unlike The Others, Had At First His Usual Sleepless Night – Racked With The Thought That At Any Minute His Sneaky Dictatorship Would Be Finally Be Seen For What It Was – A House Of Cards – A False Utopia – The Chaotic Unescapable Maze He Secretly Knew It to Be.

Again, Like Clockwork, At 4 AM, He Took A Handful Of Sleeping Pills And Other Barbiturates From His Overstocked Pharmacy-Like Bathroom & Would Soon Fell Asleep. Before He Had Swallowed The Pills, He Saw That One Pill Looked Slightly Different – Just A Little Brighter Than The Others. He Thought Nothing Of It & Threw His Trembling Hand To His Mouth & Gulped Them Down.

His Mind Now Relaxed A Little. Tomorrow The World Would Begin To Change Seismically – Not In Years, But As The Clock’s Second Hand Ticks. He Smiled Assuredly As He Climbed Back Into Bed, Next To the Fast Asleep Prunella & Then Closed his Eyes.

Just Before Nodding Off, A Final Thought Popped Into His Now Barely Conscious Mind. It Was A Pathetic, But None-The-Less Soothing Rationalisation:

“Well At Least I Can Stretch Out The Decline Of My Empire Long Enough to Create Maximum Carnage in Minimal Time – & I’ll Never Let Them Catch Me Alive Anyway – And If I Plan things Well, I’ll Escape the Hangman Via The Modern ‘Ratlines’ To Brazil, Argentina, Or Perhaps Even The Now Clandestinely Fascist New Zealand or Australia”

But he did awake at around 6 am, in a cold sweat. His nightmare was that he went into work & no one saw him at all – he was invisible & nothing he could do – shout & stomp as he may could garner even the lifting of the corner of a Frenchman’s lips, on top of that he also found no reference to himself in the pages of history.

The nightmare always ended the same way – i.e. the precursor to him waking up in a cold sweat with heart thumping. The only thing that would notice him in these nightmares was a diffuse shadow which implanted via telepathy a direct message in his mind:

“I granted your wishes – I made you one of the biggest Kings of the Earth. I gave you riches, fame & power, and insulation from the ‘Downtrodden Masses’ rightful ire. Now is time for you to repay me. I want your soul Macroncke – as small & shrivelled as it is – I want what you bargained for. I want your soul to put with all the others, to torture for all eternity.”

Macroncke was glad to awake & see himself in the bedside cabinets mirror. As always, he was happy to have his wife see his distress & hug & console him. To experience the relief that he was not in hell & was not being punished for his more-than-misdemeanours.

Prunella said “let’s get back to sleep – you have a big day tomorrow with the media” – she removed her motherly finger combing hand from his hair – they were both more than surprised to see that maggots were crawling all over her hand, having already eaten the flesh off her ring finger.

As Macronke’s Vision Faded To Black – He Knew The “French Fourth Reich” Was Now Over Before It Had Truly Began, & Any Thoughts Of An Easy Escape Were Now Being Roundly Busted. He Slipped Alone Downwards Into A Blacker Than Black Final Spiral Towards His Final Resting Place.

The End.

“Overcoming Early Year Writers’ Inertia & some biographical data & musings about life (a few thoughts about the page & me)

January 9, 2023January 10, 2023Posted in anxiety, Australia, Australian Issues, Humour, philosophy, social commentary, writingTagged Australia, autobio, blog, life, life in your 40's, New Zealand, Poems, writingLeave a comment

2022 was the second year of published work on this page, & the first full calendar year of posts (The page started posting in Feb 2021).

In order to keep writing during the dry creative spell that naturally occurs during summer (in southern hemisphere) I will write a really easy post about this blog page.

Last year was a good year for this page. The views/hits were up about 30% and the followers up about 50%.

I posted 62 Posts vs 58 in the prior year. Outside the numbers, the highlights of the top of my head were

I wrote about 7 short stories & I think I have enough now for an ebook
The Poems could also be put into an e-book.
I made progress on my Novella “Marcell Atkins the 21st Centuries Brain Chip Hacker” (then half way thru I got into writer’s block as I realised my idea to finish the book was ‘too stock’. But luckily, I think I now have a solution – the main character will turn to ‘the dark side’. This also sounds a bit ‘stock’ but trust me it is less ‘stock’ than the first idea train. So now I must try to finish that remaining 20 000 words or roughly 10 chapters. I’m dreading finishing it. I’m afraid that it’s really really crap. But I must force myself to finish it anyway. I’ll go by the adage “All turds can be polished, and today’s turd may be tomorrows fertilizer”.
I wrote a few good songs some were derived from some of the poems, although some were from scratch. This page isn’t a music page, but I thought I’d mention that.
The podcast associated with this page was fun, but traffic slowed to a crawl. I think this is because the podcast platform was free & I was supposed to “upgrade to a paid plan” but I didn’t. Or it was to “Whack” and so people dropped off listening. Either way it was great to start a podcast & I have almost hit 50 Episodes (I think we are at Ep 48).
Regarding my writing – I am wondering if my depressive ways are a positive or a negative. That dark cloud hovers but I fear that I might be making the world a “worse place” for putting darkness onto a page. If the answer is “Yes” then the only right thing to do is delete everything. That would be hard to do. This is why I realised a good strategy is to always add a “silver lining” of sorts to writing. Perhaps that’s enough to save the writing & my sorry ass.
I live in a small town where nothing happens. Of course, that can be good – as this can in theory help production of work due to the ‘lack of distractions’ – but after 6 years of being back here I am worried I have become like a giant elephant attached to a tiny peg in the ground. I want a real friend who also likes writing and flinging ideas around. Not being neurotypical it is very hard being surrounded by ‘normal people’ who only want to talk about house prices all the time.
You might want to know I am 45 years Old – I guess this makes me ‘young middle aged’ or an ‘old young person’. I think I have reverted to being 27 since the age of 35. Prior to 35 I tried to be ‘Normal’ & have a ‘career’ etc – this resulted in burn-out & my current state of awareness which is to shun that fake world of false material promises. It’s a lonely existence but at least I’m not living in a cubical battery hen room any more wondering why things never come together. I wouldn’t say I’m happy but for a depressive I think I’m happier than I was back then. I think my life is productive in its own way & I am more content. I think I have got to the point where I could in theory attain something really good with my work.
My life is now devoid of women & I am like a monk. This is because women around here don’t really like arty types, & there is no women my age who are into the ‘alternative scene’. If there are – they are more likely that not to be ‘flakes’ that are faking creativity. Oh well, just as well I had a vibrant party life when I was in my 20s & 30’s. It’s ok to be shunned into ‘forced romantic retirement’. I can survive & it is better than a series of insane girlfriends.
You might not know it but I lived in Australia from 2005-2016 – I returned to my home town & I feel like that old life in Melbourne is like a ghost that haunts me. Not because it was ‘bad’ but because it is an ‘entity’ that still exists in my mind. I miss a handful of people from those years, & I kinda regret not making some ‘smarter moves’ – ones that would have set me up better. I know regrets are bad, & admitting them is worse but that is the truth & truth is important & powerful on the page. Unfortunately, errors & bad choices in anyone’s past, especially while they are inexperienced in life’s ways – happen because they were always going to. An adult must accept learning comes with failure & vice versa. But early mistakes & their first cousin regret still make poor dinner guests – you accept them politely but this doesn’t mean they don’t annoy you & overstay their welcome. These things that annoy us are a part of our sentence as human beings on this planet. I am no different than anyone else.
The above point makes me think how ‘individuality’ is kind of a con – ultimately are we not programmed in only a handful of ways? There is a theory that there are only about 20 different types of people. But we like to think we are ‘one in a million’ – it’s an ego thing. Our parents, classmates, teachers & physical environment (for they are the most important) can only screw us up in a few different ways.
I spent 11 years of my 44 in Australia – & I feel at least 25% Australian (adding as an aside).
I am annoyed I do not get any feedback from viewers of my page – one day someone will email me at martinantonsmith@gmail.com & tell me either my page ‘sucks’ or “is good”. I’d actually be happy if someone messaged me & said my stuff ‘sucks’. It’s better to have you work insulted than totally ignored. Hopefully this year more followers will happen & more work done & more real-world events I will attend & this will happen.
You might be interested that my bike rides in the country help me attain well-being enough to have the motivation to write poems etc. I think arty people ignore their health too much as if it is independent of their ability & longevity to create work. No wonder arty types die early – you can’t ever fool your body’s thermodynamic properties – it needs negative entropy supplies to thrive. Being a ‘stick figure clad in black’ is favoured for an artist, followed a distant second by the ‘pudgy dishevelled look’ – but that’s confirmative bullshit. You can look healthy AND do great arty things. (Clive James is an example that springs to mind – he looked like a rugby player & was well known in the 80s – I struggle to think of other ‘healthy looking well known arty types, which underlines my point).
as a “P.s.” to the part where I was talking about “ghosts of the past” – I wonder if the people that haunt me are also haunted by me as well? Mutual hanting seems to be a welcomed thought but also pretty sad as it suggests both parties were never mature enough to tie close ends. We humans can’t handle rejection & it corrupts us no ends – we torture ourselves for it. how ridiculous that is. I’m trying to get better at that. Honesty & forgoing ego should be practised as we age. But I guess the question that revolves in my mind – “Am I a good or bad person” won’t die down any time soon. Sigh.
Thank you for reading – attached below is a pic of me taken only a day or two ago. Take care & I hope to write something good soon. (Ah it feels good to have written the first content of 2023! I will celebrate with a beer & 90’s Rock. By The way – I wrote a Poem just after I wrote this so this blog entry – so it doing it worked wonders – read it here if you like https://martinantonsmithart.wordpress.com/2023/01/09/percy-mcwhirter-on-the-margins-of-life// )

(Picture: Scruffy Scruffy Me in 2023)

“The Landlord, The Weed & The Warlords” (A Poem)

December 5, 2022December 6, 2022Posted in fiction, Poems, social commentary, SociologyTagged Class Warfare, fiction, Gardening, Humour, Landlords, Napoleon, poem, Poems, Stalin, war, WeedsLeave a comment

by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

My Gardener Read A Lot About Napoleon

When I asked Him To Pull Weeds He Refused

He Said He Hadn’t Yet Finalised Battleplans

For The Eastern Portion Of My Yard

I asked Him “But Are You Up For It?”

He Said “It May Be My Demise”

I Turned Around & Went Back To My Silly-Screen.

& Left Him To Turn the Pages Of His ‘Parallel Lives’

When I Returned An Hour Later

A Russian Gardener Had Usurped Him

I Was About To Celebrate My Weeds Death

When I Saw He Too Was Holding A Book

“The Brothers Karamazov”

Oh No I Thought As I Realised That

My New Gardener Was Reading Stalin’s Favourite Book

I Tested Him

“Would You Mind Pulling Those Weeds” I Asked

He Simply Pointed Over To the Garden

My Landlord Was Pulling the Weeds Out

But They Were Also Tied to a Stake

I Went Back Inside to My Silly-Screen With A Broad Smile

It Was Nice To See Societies Roles Reversed

And Soon the Garden Would Look Great!

For Garden Work Is Just Like the History of Tyranny

The Ends Justify the Means.

“Re-Admitted To the Bar” (A Poem)

December 2, 2022December 2, 2022Posted in fiction, Humour, social commentary, writingTagged bars, Beer, Drunks, fiction, Lawyers, LLB, PoemsLeave a comment

by martin anton smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

I Am Happy To Announce I Have Been “Admitted To the Bar” –

This Made Me Very Happy,

I Worked Hard To Achieve This,

I Did Much Study Of ‘Persuasion’ To Get Where I Am –

Which Is The third Bar Stool From The Right,

With a Pint Of Guiness In Each Hand.

Last Week’s Antics Are Well Forgiven.

As All ‘Brushes With the Law’ Should So Be.

And Though It Is Now Midnight,

I Say These Words With Great Sincerity,

And Though My Words Are Now a Slur,

And My Gait Is Sinusoidal,

I Contend That the Barman Serves Far Too Slow,

How Dare He Not Give Me a ‘Big Bot’ To Go?’

Time Is Now Swiftly Advancing

I Am Now Sad To Admit,

That It Is 3 AM, & I Am Well Lit!

I Am Clutched Under The Bouncer’s Arm,

Nestled Just Bellow Of His Tit.

As My Face Squarely Hits The Door,

I shout a fine ca – caw

“But I only wanted just one more”

Now The Ringing Words My Ears ‘Cherry Pick’:

“Your Banned Joe –

& Don’t Come Back Next Week”

“Oh No Not Again”, I Peeped.

As a Member of the LLB,

Or ‘Liquid Losers & Bums’

I Have Sadly Once Again Been Disbarred.

But Just As the World ‘Hates a Drunk’

Equally Soon Does Capitalism Give In,

All Booze Baron’s Worship

The Crumpled But Almighty ‘Slur Shekel’.

So Now I Do Plan My Standard Standup Speech

“Yes Lads!, ‘Scooner or Later’ I Hope To Announce

To You My Fellow Leaning Sozzles of the LLB!

Well I’ll Be! – I’ve Been Re-Admitted To The Bar”

“Polite 21st Century, Post Pandemic HR Advice For The Job & Interview Hunter – Australian Edition” (Satire/Prose)

November 23, 2022November 24, 2022Posted in Australia, HR, Humour, Job Interviews, Melbourne, social commentary, St KildaTagged Business, fiction, HR, Humour, Klaus SchwabLeave a comment

By Martin A Smith (Bcom – “Bachelor Of Complaining“) martinantonsmith@gmail.com

None of us like Job Interviews – But let’s face it – You are not a Royal who sneaks cash from your millions of subjugated serfs – you ARE A SERF – so you NEED A JOB FROM THE GLOBAL SOUL SUCK MACHINE. That Housekeeping over let me get right into the nitty gritty. Note this advice is set in the PARIS OF THE SNOUTS aka MELBOURNE AUSTRALIA – But it could be ANY WESTERN CITY – They are all slices of the SAME SH*T SANDWHICH

In general – always remember to always be positive, wise sounding, graceful, strategic & f*cking hilarious during a job interview. As such simply Follow these 11 steps to SUCKCESS & you’ll do AOK.

1. open the door handle with a swift quarter turn – if you push instead of pull don’t keep pushing – this will make the recruiting agent think you suffer from ‘Einsteinian Insanity’ (doing the same thing over & over again & expecting a different result).

2. Congratulations you finally got in the door! Now make good eye contact with the Recruiting officer – don’t overdo it & stare them down like ‘Crocodile Dundee’ did to that Steer in the Outback – 5 seconds is fine – and then break eye contact off, then repeat process.

3. You a can now walk the 5 meters to the chair, again walk with good posture – imagine you have an ironing board strapped to your back, what’s that? You tripped over the ‘not yet rigor mortised’ carcass of the previous employee? Just imagine it was a small dog & kick your heels up in confidant ‘cabaret style’.

4. Ok great – you reached the interviewee seat – but wait, OH NO!!! It’s a tiny Vietnam Street Food style plastic seat! It’s 2ocentimeters high & only covers one chubby Westerners butt cheek! Never mind – simply squat like that seat is your CEO’s seat in your Penthouse Office overlooking that filthy, stinky, sh*t brown colored, Yarra river.

5. Ok now it’s time to shake hands with the Zombie interviewer – don’t let their appearance upset your composure – so what if patches of their hair are falling out, we all age – don’t we?; so what if their rotten eyes bulge as they view your giant university educated brain-holding cranium – can you blame them for wanting to feast on your juicy tangy frontal lobes?; so what if you can smell their maggoty, rotten, half drooping off flesh – can’t they be individuals too? Just smile broadly and say the following “Hi I’m Ann Arky (Or Bob Upindown or Jock Ular etc etc), and I’d make a wonderful modern day “Klaus Schwab Style 4th industrial Revolution Slave” for your ASX 200/300/500 Company – DoneyGiveeAF*ckiebouteeCustermeree Ltd.

5. (Note that there are two ‘Fives’ in this checklist as the World is F*cked Up & so is full of the most risible duplicitous legalistic chicanery) Now that you have That Zombie Skunk F*ckwit Interviewer in front of you all impressed & sharing a black toothless grin – it’s time for you to listen. The Zombifux Interviewer(s) will now speak endless brain-numbing ‘corporate gobbledygook’ for about 17 minutes – don’t worry, just nod and daydream of how in 20 minutes time where you will be – at the Kebab Shop facing the blunt end of a FAT HOUMOUS & LEMON LADEN KEBAB – Near the Beach in St Kilda. If during your tasty daydream the Zombiefux Interviewer suddenly look at you quizzically – simply laugh heartily and say “Well I’ll consider it, I mean I love to help cunstomers, we I mean customers! The hearty laughs will mask your totalised lack of poise & attention.

6. It’s now the end and you have shaken the Zombie’s sweaty, pale, cadaverous hand (Yes, their hand fell off but you handled that with aplomb – simply placing it nonchalantly on the desk in front) and said “I’ll look forward to the weird one-sided slavery document to arrive in my inbox, so as I can sign my soul away to your ruler – Beelzebub – I mean to say I’ll wait for your next stage telephone call or email”.

7. You reach the door – remember to not do the same stupid ‘Einsteinian Insanity trick’ – If you fail at this – not only will they have confirmation you are f*cking insane, but they’ll also know you have a very shitty goldfish type memory.

8. Now get your well-toned deadbeat’s arse down to the St Kilda Kebab Shop, and treat yourself with a post interview dinner – double up on everything so as to allow those lashings of trans fats of help combat the stressful thought that those Zombie f*kwits might actually offer you that Klaus Schwab sponsored, Dictator Dan organised Globalist Fake Carbon Credit Salesman, Soul -Sucking probably Money-Laundering Job.

9. Finish delicious Kebab meal, wipe mouth – run outside & puke in the bin. See Zombie c*nt Interviewers walk by – say to them as you wipe the puke off your face “I guess I’ve got no chance now” feel relieved when thy say “no no no – not at all !!! We are looking for soulless regurgitators with a penchant for impulsivity! You start Monday”

10. Wipe the remaining sputum from your mouth, do a final “mouth puke & swallow” and say *Gulp* Great!!! Can’t wait to start my new life at “WontGiveAF*ckee Intl.” ….then, with horror, you realise you said the wrong company name…before you can correct yourself the Zombie DontGiveAF*Ckee ltd Interviewer (s) say –“Sorry you got our name wrong – We Kunts at DontGiveAF*Ckee ltd may be the “Evil Dead” but we love attention to detail – your f*ckin’ fired”.

11. As you marvel at the fact you have just been fired from a job you had for only 23 seconds, you snap to and throw your hands up crying “easy come easy go”. You about-turn & return to Kebab Shop to celebrate – after all -you didn’t really want that job anyway. . . – You’re more of an ‘Ideas man’ & ‘Entertainer’, than a simple salesman.

(P.s. I hope you enjoyed this Aussie style humour, my dear old Melbournite (& St Kilda) people – written from exile & across the ditch in NZ – Martin A. Smith 23/11/2022 martinantonsmith@gmail.com)